A Cat's Grinning Corpse
by cutecomicgeek
Summary: The gunshots were loud,close,and were followed by insane laughter as they embedded themselves into Batman's chest. He staggered back in surprise,two roses falling from his hand and over the lip of the rooftop into the alley twenty stories below. UPDATED
1. The Good Fight

_A Cat's Grinning Corpse_

**AUTHOR PLEA:** I LOVE REVIEWS! The good, the bad, AND the ugly. I do read them and respond because I appreciate the time you took to read and write your thoughts. And they serve as constructive criticism for future writing. VERY ESSENTIAL. Sooo…DON'T BE SHY First Fanfic I have done. Enjoy!

Preface

Undulating sheets of torrential rain plummeted down from the purple cloud-choked sky. Thunder and lightning rolled and ripped jagged crevices into the bruised thunderclouds, momentarily illuminating the black membrane above into electrified blues and greens and pinks. Gothic skyscrapers loomed in masses of steel, pock-marked stones, and stained glass; the gridlocked labyrinth of interlocked streets steamed as cold rain slammed down on the black asphalt, and accumulated in the swollen gutters clogged with ungodly filth and garbage.

This city pulsed with life—every window was ablaze with light as if the occupants within were trying to ward off the horrible night, and the everlasting wail of sirens boomeranged up and down the roads, never dying or wavering in presence. It served as the hub of crime, the coveted chance at salvation for wayward criminals, and the primary headquarters for housing the criminally insane. They holed themselves up during the day, hiding from society, but at night the city's scum slithered out of the brickwork to claim the night, saturating it with corruption. The tempting neon glow and sinful flashing lights of clubs, sleazy restaurants, strip joints, and bars kaleidoscoped together and mixed easily with the grit in the pooling water on the streets.

On every route leading into the city, a graffiti-covered sign ensconced on a fragile rusty pole read: WELCOME TO GOTHAM CITY. And not one hundred feet behind one of those signs, yet another neglected sign riddled through with corrosive rust proclaimed: ARKHAM INSANE ASYLUM, NEXT EXIT. A dead man swayed from the light over this second sign, an improvised noose rung taut around his broken neck. A garish grin was plastered to his face and bulging eyes gazed indifferently up into the falling rain. His doctor's uniform was bloodied and cut to shreds. The thin ribbons of material clinging to the suspended form thrashed wildly in the wind, exposing flesh mutilated beyond recognition.

A joker from a deck of cards was later extricated from one of the sixty-six stab wounds the cadaver had received. The Joker had escaped.

Chapter 1: The Good Fight

A large fist clad in thick navy cloth smashed onto the computer keyboard. The soft smoldering lights of various computer screens flickered briefly from the impact, then the central modem whirred to life to save the keyboard from more physical abuse. A bat screeched from far off in the surrounding caverns, prompting the man at the computers to extract his fist, incline his head thoughtfully to one side, and cross massive arms that bulged against reinforced dark gray Kevlar.

"It's another damn power outage," he said into the darkness. "Nearly made the cave's generator give out."

A white gloved hand manifested from the natural dark of the cave, offering a steaming cup of inky black liquid. Connected to this hand was an immaculately dressed middle aged gentleman, his gently receding hairline a metallic silvery white like his delicately trimmed moustache. "What I wouldn't give to be able to sneak up on you just once, sir—I will get on that_ faulty_ generator right way…I suppose I can cancel out the more likely cause of nasty weather…"

The cowled man smiled crookedly as he accepted the drink. "Thank you, Alfred, but I'm confident that I controlled myself—I didn't rig it with explosives or anything."

"Of course, of course," the butler agreed quickly, whipping out a bleached white handkerchief to neatly remove the broken and shattered keyboard buttons. He pocketed the mangled remains, and then straightened his cufflinks as his insightful eyes landed on the main monitor. "Is our happy friend out to pay Batman a visit again?" he inquired, silently watching the grainy security tape replay over and over the Joker as he burst free from his glass-paneled cell, effortlessly disposed of a few advancing security details with the glinting shards, and then loped away presumably toward the exit as his fellow inmates cheered him on by beating on their own glass prisons.

The Batman ran a hand over his partially exposed face, causing the glove's material to grate audibly against rough stubble. "Seems as much," he muttered, carefully setting down the mug full of coffee next to tomorrow's edition of the Gotham Newspaper announcing the maniac's escape in bold lettering splashed on the front page. He braced both palms on the edge of the keyboard, and wearily bowed his head. The muted luminosity of the semi-circled Bat-computer cast the pointed ears of his cowl into sharp relief.

"Master Bruce?" The butler gazed with concern upon the legendary superhero, seeing instead the man he helped raise from a young age. He noticed the bruise-like rings peeking out from underneath the slatted eyes of the cowl, and the drawn muscles in Bruce's face; but Alfred also recognized the resolved set to his broad shoulders. He would get the Joker locked up again, away from the general populace—he always did.

"I _just_ put him back in Arkham two nights ago, Alfred. In less than _forty-eight hours_, he has managed not only to make my effort pointless, but he has also thrown it up in my face."

"How so?"

Batman reached over and tapped a blinking button, pulling up several pictures.

"Oh dear," Alfred whispered, his hand absently rising to clutch his neck. "Did this just happen?"

"Yes. I just came back from documenting evidence and observing the crime scene-I got there before the police did after contacting Gordon to hang back. I knew he would leave a path for me to follow."

"Who was this poor fellow?"

"Just a doctor—an intern, really—working at Arkham. His name was Joseph Mengles. No significance to his death, from what I can see; just another innocent victim." He paused, then picked up the newspaper to hand to Alfred. "Could you give this to the nearest news stand to copy and distribute before dawn? People need to be warned as soon as possible."

Alfred nodded and took it, knowing that he could do nothing but guide him through the darkness he purposefully submerged himself in. "Yes, I will make sure it happens, Master Bruce," he said softly. "But…I know it seems insignificant when what you do is constantly undone, but sometimes when you are fighting the good fight, you may not win every battle; there will be senseless killings, so there will always be casualties. But you are preventing that body count from rising any more than it has to…and I am sure if each of those saved from being a number in that death toll knew this, they would be grateful of you. You _are_ making a difference."

Batman looked at Alfred, amazed at his inexplicable ability to know exactly what to say to him to get him back on the right track. He really looked up to this man. Alfred had become his father, his inspiration, his everything when his parents were taken from him. And as Bruce grew older, so did Alfred; it saddened Bruce as his beloved butler's hair washed to silver, as his small laugh lines cracked into spiderweb exaggeration, as small liver spots began to sprinkle themselves over his arms and neck.

"Thank you, Alfred." Bruce abruptly turned, his long cape snapping as he strode with renewed purpose to the Batmobile.

"Just remember you have another engagement that neither Batman nor Bruce needs to forget tonight," Alfred called after him, his mild voice bouncing around the cave and through Bruce's skull.

He hadn't forgotten, though. He never had from the moment it happened. It was the anniversary of his parent's murders. A familiar cold pain seeped from that empty place Bruce harbored deep within his heart, pumping its vengeful whispers and promises throughout his body like poison as it burned away what little that remained of Bruce Wayne. This one night belonged to _him _and to him alone. Batman revved the powerful engine to life and peeled off into the storming night to fight the crime that had stolen his childhood and his parents.


	2. A Date to Remember

Chapter 2: A Date to Remember

Sharp pain made Bruce gasp as his eyes snapped open. His body tensed involuntarily, readying itself to fight for his life until he realized he was gazing at the vaulted wooden ceiling of his own bedroom.

A familiar hand was placed gently on his shoulder. "Bear with me, Master Bruce. I have to get these broken ribs bandaged as quickly as possible."

Bruce's sight swam as he dragged his eyes down to see Alfred with his suit blazer removed, his white dress shirt's sleeves upturned to his elbows, and in the process of unwinding a long roll of tan compression bandages. With tentative fingers, Bruce slid his hand along the side of his bare torso until he encountered the unmistakable knots of stitches. His hand jerked reflexively away from them.

As Alfred swiftly and expertly began to wrap his chest, Bruce's light breathing grew even shallower as the broken bones grated and grinded against each other. He knew Alfred was barely moving him, but he felt like his rib cage was on verge of collapsing in on itself. When he reopened his eyes white holes in his vision blossomed in fuzzy starbursts, but the pain was muted now—still there, still throbbing, but not unbearable.

"How did this happen to me?" Bruce asked, watching as Alfred disposed of bloodied towels and swatches of gauze in a garbage bag.

His brow furrowed as he tied the bag up and dropped it at the foot of the grand bed. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say. I was hoping _you_ could tell _me_." Alfred shrugged his blazer back on, then absently brushed microscopic dust off the lapels. "I got the emergency signal roughly three hours after you left last night. I received your coordinates, and immediately left to retrieve you." He looked curiously at Bruce for a second, and stepped forward to inspect numerous freshly sutured wounds running down his neck and across his right shoulder. "But when I arrived at the location, you were already gone."

Bruce's eyebrows knitted together in confusion as Alfred withdrew from carefully wiping away dried blood from a lesion's edges. "The last thing I remember is...the Joker—I was going after him, I was chasing him. But he took me by surprise. He had a—"

"I think you need to try to remember what happened at a later time, Master Bruce—you had a slight concussion when I finally found you."

"…Where was I?"

"You were sort of hidden, in an adjacent alleyway. I saw blood—blood everywhere where you were supposed to be—"

"Which was where exactly?" Bruce was hoping some detail would trigger his memory.

"It was in Crime Alley."

A muscle in Bruce's jaw jumped. "What?"

"Yes, I was just as shocked as you were. I supposed you were merely paying your respects, but I doubted you would run into trouble while doing that. I was at a complete loss. I followed the transmitter in your belt though, and found you partially covered by trash and debris one alleyway over on the other side of the theatre."

"Someone placed me there."

"No doubt. But I think whomever they were, they were trying to help you. When I got you home, I found that someone had improvised several tourniquets, and had used your cape to temporarily secure your broken ribs."

Bruce squinted against the setting sun as it shined brilliant rays into his room. Who had helped him? He immediately suspected Dick, but he was at the University. He couldn't have been there—he would be here. "Did you contact Dick?"

"Well…I did this morning. He was extremely concerned—he dropped everything, and was coming over, but I told him I needed his help fabricating a cover story." Bruce raised an eyebrow suspiciously at Alfred who impassively plucked up the garbage bag and tattered batsuit, and turned to leave. "While I am off to burn your DNA, if anyone asks, you were innocently joyriding in your luxurious Ferrari this morning on the Gotham Freeway—"

"No, Alfred, you didn't—"

"—when a reckless driver caused you to run off the road, and over the side of the Gotham Harbor Bridge."

Bruce closed his eyes. "That one really hurt."

"Yes, well I figured it needed to bring real tears to your eyes," he said with a knowing smile.

After Alfred clicked his door shut, Bruce caught sight of himself in the large gilded mirror suspended on a side wall. He looked like hell.

It took almost all of his determination and last remnants of his strength to pull himself up into a sitting position. He stuffed several ridiculously large pillows behind him, then leaned back. If he was going to be limited to a bed, he would not look like an invalid.

From far below, he heard the deep tolling of his doorbell. That would probably be Dick. Maybe he could help him fill in the blanks. Bruce started to take a deep breath, but the air was robbed from him when sharp barbs pinched his side. He'd broken ribs before—there either must be several pulverized bones, or something was getting punctured because he had never had anything hurt like this. He resignedly leaned his head back on the bed's high headboard, and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to adapt his body to the spiking pain.

A couple minutes later, soft fingertips lightly touched his cheek. He didn't have to open his eyes to know who it was. "Why are you here Selina?" he asked, taking her hand in his own, engulfing it completely. He was always so careful with her hands—they felt so small, so fragile like they had the bones of a bird inside them.

"I heard about the accident," she said, perching herself on the edge of his bed.

He smiled. "Really? News travels fast."

Selina cocked her head at him in sarcastic disbelief. "_Especially_ when you are the world's most eligible bachelor—_billionaire_ Bruce Wayne!" She grandly threw a hand in the air, then suddenly leaned forward so that her long velvet lashes brushed his cheek. Her sweet breath slid over his neck as she spoke. "But to me, you're just Bruce."

Just as he raised an arm to encircle her waist, she lithely drew back—a tease to perfection. She hooked her short raven hair back behind her ear, and allowed an amused smirk to slightly lift her sultry lips.

"Missed me that much?" he asked as a rare smile flashed upon his face.

Alfred suddenly flung open the door. "_Miss Kyle!_ I politely asked you to remain in the foyer while I inquired Master Bruce if your presence was wanted."

Absolutely unruffled, Selina rolled her magnificent dark brown eyes, and murmured under her breath, "believe me, old man, he _always wants_ my presence."

She stood, smoothing down her short black mini dress, and bent down to adjust some charcoal panty hose that bunched up around her stiletto heels. She felt Bruce's eyes on her, and turned to smile suggestively at him.

Selina gathered her small purse and bent down next to his ear. "Like you wouldn't believe, Bruce," she whispered, lightly kissing the edge of his lips.

When she backed away, she caught sight of the long gashes on his neck and shoulder. One of her hands involuntarily reached out to trace its way over the angry red lines…a perfect fit. Her eyes widened as she snapped her dark eyes to Bruce's crystallized blue. In that one moment, Selina considered the impossible—but quickly dismissed the epiphany out of pure spite. No, it couldn't be feasible. She forced herself to smile at him once more, then quickly stalked past Alfred. By the time she reached the front door, Selina was flat out running.

As she got into her silver Porsche convertible—a gift from Bruce—she shook her head in utter disbelief. Last night, she had given those scratches to the one man she truly loved—the Batman. She vividly remembered it the exact moment it happened.

_The gunshots were loud, close, and were followed by insane laughter as they embedded themselves into Batman's chest. She was on the other side of the roof, trailing him until now. He staggered back in surprise, two roses falling from his hand and over the lip of the rooftop into the alley twenty stories below. With an inhuman shriek, she launched herself towards the dazed man, but to her horror, he followed the roses backwards off the roof. Her stomach slammed into the side of the building, and she nearly cried in relief when her claws managed to sink into the flesh of his arm. She grappled desperately to hold on to his shoulder, but the rain was making it impossible. Her hands raked frantically for secure purchase, but she just couldn't lift double her own bodyweight. She could _feel_ it as her claws tore his flesh open. At that moment she cursed God her making her so weak. She screamed his name numerous times, but realized that he was totally unconscious. With a final cry of pain and self loathing she let go, and helplessly watched as Batman slammed into the garbage-filled alley below._

Her knuckles on the car's steering wheel were glaringly white as she turned out of Wayne Manor. Crime Alley…that's where they had been. Right next to the old Opera House where…Selina's heart skipped a beat. His parents. That was where his parents were shot to death in front of him. Common knowledge enough in Gotham.

_But what about the roses?_ she asked herself. He had had _two_ roses in his hand…_one for a lost mother, one for a lost father?_ Maybe, but it sure as hell was a strange thing to bring along on a crimefighting patrol.

Bruce never talked about his parents' death much, at least not to her. But then again when they were together talking was not their main priority.

She did recall that he once told her that he missed them, missed them terribly. And that he blamed himself for their murders; however, this was said a couple hours after she had finally coerced him into drinking with her. He never drank, and now Selina understood why: he poured his soul out to anyone who would listen. That would no doubt be a major problem if he were trying to keep a secret identity under wraps. The rest of that particular evening was a swirled jumble of hard liquor, conversation muddied by her stupor, drunken laughter, and desperate sex.

A shiver jarred up her spine when she thought about what she was going to do to get the answers she wanted so badly—she would have to get him drunk again. A bitter taste filled her mouth as she comprehended how heartless she was. _Last resort, that will only be a last resort. _

"Bruce Wayne is my Batman," Selina said to the wind, testing the words on her tongue. Could it be _him_? That shallow, materialistic playboy? Be her elusive Dark Knight?

"His body type certainly fits the bill," she mused mischievously, sliding her cell phone out of her purse to speed dial Bruce's number.

_There was just one way to find out for sure, _she thought as Alfred answered the phone. "Yes, can I speak to Bruce for a moment? Hmm, I can't? Then tell him he has a date Friday night…"


	3. Different Kinds of Love

Chapter 3: Different Kind of Love

****WARNING: there is abusive content and sexual scenes, grotesque suggestive material in the following chapter. Read at your own discretion. I didn't want to rate this story M because of this chapter, so just read if you feel comfortable with such content.**

"Umm…Master Bruce, I highly doubt that is commendable behavior for a recovering car crash survivor," Alfred stated, standing stiffly with a palpable air of disapproval while Bruce continued to rapidly press weights. "Especially if the fatal incident happened merely two days ago."

After finishing his routine, Bruce carefully sat up, and gingerly felt his unwrapped chest for any shifting of the bones inside. He frowned when his fingers skimmed over a sore spot. "I thought you would be proud of me—I'm trying to recover in time to resurrect my social life with Selina." He smiled good-naturedly as Alfred scoffed at him.

"That's the problem—I think she may know something. Did you see how she reacted before she left Saturday?" Alfred handed a fluffy white towel to Bruce as he stood to head over to the pool located in an adjoining room.

At the indoor pool's edge, Bruce stopped and placed a reassuring hand on his butler's shoulder. "Look, if she has deduced the truth, then so be it. Regardless if she has or hasn't, I doubt I can sway her to believe differently." The muted scintillating light of the water reflected upon the pair with dancing shadows as Bruce pulled off his shoes and socks. "Plus, it seemed like it was only a matter of time anyway, considering we already know she is Catwoman."

Alfred's eyes widened for a moment before retrieving the discarded items. "You appear to be extremely indifferent to this rather serious predicament."

Bruce launched himself in a smooth dive into the cool aqua water, barely making a sound before breaking the surface again. "Not indifferent, Alfred. Just resigned—almost…relieved. Maybe this isn't a bad thing. And while I can, I am going to look at it that way for as long as possible."

With that said, Alfred couldn't argue. He slightly inclined his head in understanding and agreement, and promptly left Bruce to his meticulous exercise. He was happy that Bruce was beginning to see things in a less sinister light, and reluctantly admitted to himself that it was getting rather exhausting fabricating the day and night life of a modern playboy.

"Back to business," he sighed, descending into the Batcave to contact Dick for an update on the rampaging Joker.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

"Come on, Mr. J, come back to me," Harley pleaded, reaching out a desperate arm peppered with black and green bruises. She tugged on the Joker's garishly purple pants, her faintly shaking hand slipping onto the wildly rumpled mattress sheets.

But the Joker wasn't paying attention to her. He continued to look out the dirt encrusted warped window beside the bed. Something was bothering him. He glared into the notorious Gotham night, reveling in his tarnished kingdom uneasily. There was something different about Batman—he was more agile, a little leaner, a tad less bulky than normal. It was like amputating an arm or a leg to the Joker; it was _that obvious_ to him. And, he could have sworn he had killed him that glorious night two days ago.

His torn lips curled up too far in a disgusted snarl. _But he had survived! _His entire body began to shake in uncontrollable anger. And if the Bat hadn't survived, an imposter was on the loose. Someone had replaced good ol' Batsy. _Some_one was filling that _Goddamned _cowl he had so painstakingly emptied for good. _Some_one was going to die.

He suddenly noticed that Harley was quietly whimpering, curled up on the bed, and completely naked. A toxic gleam flashed in his eyes as he sat on the edge of the mattress. "Oh, what's the matter, boo?" he said in a high, slightly sarcastic tone.

Harley raised her tear stained face up far enough to peer hopefully at him with a blackening eye socket. "I'm…I'm cold."

Joker looked aghast, playacting sincerity to cynical perfection. "Then why don't you get under the covers, or put your clothes on, darling?"

She looked at him with a blank face of utter confusion, reminding him of a stupid, slow bovine. "But you told me not to…you said you would cut me up and eat me if I did."

He reached over to fondly touch a puckered scar running up and over the swell of her hip. "Oh, my Harley, you know I didn't mean that. You know how I looove you," he sang mockingly, hoping she would take the bait.

"Then show me—I—I _need_ you to show me," she sobbed, dragging herself pitifully to his side, and pulling urgently at the waistband of his slacks.

The joker sighed and rolled his eyes in exaggerated frustration. It looked like he would just have to beat her _without_ an excuse this time. He wanted to humor her first, though, and let her manage to remove his pants and drape herself over his exposed crotch.

"Please, Mr. J," she whispered, hugging him tightly around the waist. His hand reached up to yank down a dangling pipeline from the gutted ceiling, but right before he swung it down on Harley's matted blonde hair, he abruptly _wanted_ her. It had been so long since they had been together, so long since he had been with the only person who loved him. It was a sort of rare thing, having someone willing to be with him without raping them, knocking them out, or resorting to necrophilia. Arkham had managed to keep him locked up for an unusually long amount of time—two days. But he had only gone there to retrieve Harley anyway because as much as he hated to admit it, he had missed her platinum blonde, baby blue eyed face—not to mention her body.

_I can do this another time, _he decided, dropping the pipe to pull Harley up into a violently forceful kiss. She gasped in surprise, then returned the kiss with more demented passion than his own. She quickly straddled his narrow hips and leaned hard backwards so they would be laced together on the bed. He grabbed her hips on both sides and shoved himself savagely deep inside her again and again. Harley breathed raggedly through a terribly bruised mouth, letting Joker invade her every way possible for hours until he collapsed into an exhausted slumber.

_Green stubble,_ she thought as she watched him turn towards her in his sleep. _Even his eyelashes are green! _His translucent skin seemed paper-thin to Harley, who thought she could trace the branching map of bluish veins straight to his heart with only her fingertips. Sometimes she wondered who he had been, what he had looked like, what he was like before he became the Joker. Was he shy? Honest? A hard worker? Married? A Father? Harley liked to imagine he used to be a well tanned, lanky young man with a lop-sided grin and golden hair with a wonderful sense of humor. So kind and so gentle he would hold her to him and kiss her swollen eyelids, her lips, her scars—kiss away all the wrongs he ever did to her. Then he would apologize over and over and over for the ones he couldn't kiss, beg for her forgiveness, and make her laugh and smile. He would tell her how beautiful he thought she was and would drop down on one knee…

Harley opened her eyes slowly, aware that she was on the wooden floor. _Must've fallen off_ she reasoned. When she righted herself she saw that Joker was taking up the entire bed, and was wrapped up impossibly in the sheets, his long arms and legs hanging off the sides. With a small sigh she deftly tugged on some pajama shorts and a ratty shirt to sleep in, and went to the bathroom to doctor some of the worst injuries the Joker had inflicted on her. Tonight's winner was a deep bite mark on her left breast. _It will definitely scar_ she concluded, slapping a large waterproof band-aid on it. She brushed out her incredibly tangled hair, and took a quick shower just to wash off all the blood, tears, and sweat—especially the blood. Harley always hated seeing it crusted dry on her legs and waist, and it was a bitch to get off. When she got dressed again, she turned to leave the seedy bathroom only to be grabbed from behind before she could open the door.

A strong, thickly gloved hand was pressing hard on her bruised face, making fresh tears stream down her cheeks. An arm was slung around her waist, constricting her sore muscles until she was physically sick from pain. Her attacker was male, something Harley quickly found out after she kicked his groin, causing him to grunt audibly. After scrabbling for a moment or two, she went limp, giving up—maybe she would blackout if he decided to hurt her.

But when he quietly laid her on the chipped bathroom tile, she saw two pointy ears protruding from an all too familiar black cowl.

"Are you ok?" Batman asked, eyeing the harsh dark coloring on her jaw and lips. His mouth went slack. "Did I do that?"

Harley thought he sounded shocked, almost horrified that he had actually harmed her.

A hysterical giggle made her double over weakly. This was definitely not normal behavior. He was _talking _to her. "No, no. You didn't, you nosy Bat. You—"

She trailed off as he grabbed the bottom of her t-shirt. "May I?" he asked, waiting for her answer. "I want to make sure you don't need to go to the hospital."

For a second, she couldn't comprehend what he said. Then she snorted softly. "Are you seriously _asking_ if you can take my clothes off? That's a first." Laughing made her hurt worse, so she just sighed lightly as he looked at her with a curious sadness.

When she closed her eyes and rested her swollen face on the cool tile, he proceeded in his examination. He took in all the serrated scars, fresh cuts and several red bite marks, and the god awful contusions presently blossoming across her lower abdomen and disappearing into the flimsy waistband of her shorts. She expected him to remove those too, but he didn't. He looked individually at her arms and legs, and carefully inspected her skull, then gently shifted her to the side so he could see her back.

More tears slid from her eyes—no man had ever touched her this gently, this carefully. Like she was a breakable doll, or something that would blow away if he moved too quickly. She didn't want him to stop.

Batman replaced her on the floor, and took out a couple pills from a dull yellow compartment from his utility belt. He set them on the porcelain sink's edge and turned to her. "Take those pills when you can. They will help the soreness and take away most of the pain in your muscles."

"What do you want?" she murmured, wanting him to leave now. "Please, just tell me what you want so you can go. If _he_ knew I was talking with you…" She hugged herself close in terror, thinking about all the gruesome consequences he would come up with. "I don't want you to see me like this."

A beat of silence passed between them. "I came here to take the Joker. He murdered a man, strung him up on the Arkham exit sign."

Harley's eyebrows scrunched together. "You're not Batman."

Batman's body went absolutely still. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, first you talk too much. He would have never told me why he was taking Mr. J. And you care too much. The real Batman would have rushed me to the hospital, not waste his precious nighttime inspecting me for mortal injuries. I would know—that's what he did when my puddin' accidentally knocked me out of a window. I told him I was fine, but he just wouldn't listen…but whoever you are, if you have to take him, then go. I can't stop you. But you should know that he's all I have." She stared fixedly at the wannabe-Batman's heavy-looking knee guards.

He sighed exasperatingly. "He needs to go back to Arkham, Harley. He needs help."

"He's perfect," she growled, pushing herself agonizingly up from the floor. "And he doesn't—need—any—help!" She irrationally threw punches between the words, knowing he would block every one.

Harley opened her mouth to muster a scream, but the bathroom door flew open, a shower of machine gun bullets sputtering out in a choppy staccato rhythm. The Joker's vicious neon green hair fell into his darkly animated face, his yellowed teeth clenched onto the end of a glowing cigarette.

"Hel-lo, Batsy!" he yelled, following the Batman's smooth dodging movements with deadly bullets until he catapulted himself out of a fragile window. "Come back when you can, Batman! You are always welcome here, even an imposter!" he screamed, laughing so hard he almost dropped the hefty gun. He aimlessly deposited several dozen rounds into the ceiling, laughing even harder. "I'm terribly sad that this apartment building is abandoned!" he proclaimed, throwing the gun out the window.

Harley barely rose up from where she had expertly flattened herself on the floor. It was completely silent, and when she looked up, she saw the Joker staring at her with protruding round eyes, his mouth stretched eerily into a placidly still grin. He was softly laughing under his breath, a high keening coming from his throat.

"Mr. J, I didn't do anything wrong, I promise. I told him to go away, I did, honest, Mr. J," Harley frantically said, scooting back as he stepped over the threshold of the bathroom. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the small orange glow brightening as he breathed the curling opaque smoke out of his nose like an angry dragon.

He flicked the molten ashes onto her exposed legs. She knew better than to knock them off, and let them burn white specks onto her skin.

He smiled at her again. "Harley, Harley, Harley," he chided, grabbing a fistful of her hair. A small cry was torn from her lips. "There is _no_ fraternizing with the enemy. You can't play both sides, my sweet." He brought her face centimeters from his. "I just don't work that way," he ground out, slamming her face into the cracked ceramic bathtub.

Joker took one last pull from the cigarette, then began putting it out by pressing the burning tip to her neck and shoulders. "Seems like I am always teaching you a lesson, Harley." He shook his head in feigned sorrow. "When will you ever learn?"

Harley nearly didn't hear him. Her vision was steadily purpling to black, then whitening suddenly to exaggerated parodies of the objects in the room. An annoying ringing was whining in her ears, and she couldn't move her jaw anymore. But she was still conscious enough to feel the rage and pure loathing radiating off of Joker.

When he dragged her across the floor by her ankles, she tried fruitlessly to get away, and trailed bloody nail marks across the wooden bedroom floor before he kicked her down the short hallway and threw her into the tiny living room.

With a vicious gory grin, he produced a large black tool bag from behind the moldy couch. The bag's cloth was stiff from dried blood, and the menacing hedge clippers he lifted from it were rusty and covered in more gory body fluids. "Have to find out what you told him, boo. I know you love me…I love you too. Don't worry, don't cry—shhh…this will only hurt for a second…"

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_A few minutes later… _

Bruce tapped the blinking radio transfer signal button. "Is there a problem?"

"He knows," Dick blurted miserably. "How did he figure it out? I was so careful!"

"He knows what, exactly?"

"That I'm an imposter! He called me that before I left his hideout."

"Why didn't you leave with him in handcuffs and in police custody?"

"Well, he kind of decided to whip out a fucking machine gun. I got away, but he nicked me a little on my leg. I'm on my way over now to bandage it up and head back out."

Bruce sighed. "Has he killed anyone else?"

"No, he hasn't. Thank God. But I think Harley is taking the brunt of his anger right about now. I swear, we need to get her away from him as soon as we can—I saw her tonight, and she is wasting away from enduring all those horrible things Joker does to her. She's not going to last much longer."

"We will keep an eye on her," Bruce promised.

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In the still hours of predawn, while the bright sun cascaded its wonderful pink and gold warmth upon Harley's cold, dreadfully cold body, she inched her battered self back to the bathroom riddled with bullet holes. The two pills that were placed on the sink had dropped to the floor; she located them, and with a laborious effort to refrain from passing out, she swallowed them with a remarkably different tongue. Harley silently thanked God for creating bats on Earth before completely losing consciousness.


	4. Double Vision

Chapter 4: Double Vision

Later that morning, Alfred opened the manor door to find a grinning young man with inky hair, vivacious blue eyes, and charming dimples. A sole duffel bag was slung across a Gotham University letterman jacket. "Hey Alfred! What's kickin'?"

"Master Dick! Well I tried that method to get you out of here, and yet here you are back again. Perhaps I did not kick you far enough…"

Dick's infectious smile grew impossibly wider as he stepped inside to hug the paternal butler.

"By the looks of things, I am guessing you are here to visit?" The butler pointedly looked at the tattered bag while Dick deposited it on the nearest piece of furniture.

"Yeah. I'm staying for a couple of days. Just to help Bruce get back on his feet, and believe it or not I just sort of, kinda, may _possibly_ miss this place just a tiny, tiny bit."

Alfred approached the bag and picked it up by the worn strap like it was infected with the black plague. "This is _not_ a college dorm, Master Dick. Please refrain from treating this house as such."

Dick rolled his eyes at Alfred's retreating back and plopped onto one of the three plush couches in a living room the size of a normal suburban house.

"_I saw that_ Master Dick, and despite you almost getting your eyeballs stuck in the back of your dear head, I am so glad you are back." He smiled warmly, then continued his way out of the room. "I will deposit this bag in your old bedroom."

Dick looked around in the lavishly filled colossal room. He could almost see his eight year old self running precariously close around the priceless family heirlooms and antiques, cutting corners and flipping over tables while a slightly younger Alfred looked apprehensively on with a slight greenish hue to his face. But Bruce had always trusted him, had always had confidence in him not to break anything. Of course, that confidence was voided when he accidently broke himself when he tried to use the couches as springboards for his acrobatic practices…needless to say, it was a terrible idea. After a doctor had casted his entire arm, Bruce had immediately bought an entire Olympics-qualified gymnastics equipment set and put it in a place near the West wing of the mansion that looked like a subterranean warehouse.

Now it was an extension of the Batcave, but then it had been a sanctuary for Dick, especially when he was still in the dark about Bruce being Batman; his odd hours and paranoid ways lingering from his alter ego more often than not left his ward alone and isolated from the world in the ridiculously vast mansion. When he finally donned his Robin suit though, his world changed drastically for the second time. Bruce had not been crazy about the bold color choices—he had called them ostentatious, a target for danger, a perverted joke, a death sentence. But he never pursued in changing them because they meant too much to Dick. It was his way of including his deceased parents into his new life with Bruce, and Bruce never questioned that. He instead compensated by making sure Robin was_ too_ good to ever get hurt.

Presently, Dick stood to shuck of his jacket, and nearly jumped through the roof in surprise when he found the seat next to him occupied. "Holy shit, Bruce, don't _do_ that to me!"

Bruce clutched at his side, his face contorted in uncontrollable laughter.

"I hope you rip a few stitches," Dick said, his own throat betraying him as it became tight with repressed laughter.

"You need to work on being more aware of your surroundings," Bruce chuckled, his eyes on his mortified son.

"_Or_, maybe you need to not sneak up on me when I'm in a supposed 'safe zone'. I let my guard down is all. You just took advantage." Dick haughtily scavenged what dignity he had left, and crossed his arms defensively. "…How long were you there, anyway?"

"Long enough," Bruce said, running his hands over his smiling face. He stood and embraced his son, then held him back at arm's length. "So how's Gotham University? Is it everything you wanted in a college? Do I need to make a few adjustments?"

Dick shrugged. "It's alright. To be honest, I miss here. I just needed to come visit you for a while, if you'll have me."

Bruce grinned. "You are always welcome, Dick. I don't give many people a key to my front door. It will be prudent if you use it whenever you need it."

"Message taken, noted, and filed away for further use." He saluted his adoptive father, then turned in the direction of Bruce's study. "So, let's get cracking on gettin' that clown back in his reserved cell in Arkham." The two descended into the dark alcove of the Batcave that housed the Batcomputer, and ran into Alfred dusting one of the dozens of vehicles stashed away in the recesses of the vast cavern.

As Bruce rebooted the computer system, Dick sighed with impatience. "You know, I don't think I ever told you what my favorite part of college was—"

"Is it the invigorating academic courses and being able to expand one's mind to do anything he or she chooses in their life?" Alfred asked, gazing hopefully at Dick's incredulous expression as he joined their company.

Both Dick and Bruce looked at each other with impish lights in their eyes. "Ummm sure, Alfred."

Alfred's shoulders slummed in disappointment. "It's not what I think it is, is it?"

Dick laughed. "Depends if you are talking about what you just said, or what you are cringing to say. If what you are thinking has something to do with breasts and a firm—"

"_Okay_," Bruce interrupted, pulling up files and information on the Joker's crimes, motives, patterns in violence, psychological profile, and other useful documents. "Don't make him completely lose hope in you." After a moment's pause overflowing with more of Dick's laughter and Alfred's scoldings, Bruce also began pulling up files on Harleen Quinzel and Selina Kyle, just to be thorough.

"What do they have to do with anything?" Dick asked once he sobered up a little. "Catwoman has nothing to do with the Joker, right? She hates him. And Harley didn't help Joker escape, _he_ bailed _her _out."

"Right. But I am nearly one hundred percent confident Selina was there the night I was shot. And I want to get the whole story from her. Harley I'm just including because the Joker has involved her."

"Whoa, hold on a sec. I was never told you were shot. I just knew you were worse for wear. You were shot by the Joker? That's not really his style."

The doorbell pealed its song through the cave, shaking the stalactites with its deep murmur. The three men sat in a weighted silence. Alfred sighed. "I will see who it is," he volunteered sarcastically, pivoting sharply to exit the cave.

"I think he was just getting so desperate to get rid of me, he resorted to a gun. And after I locked up Bane again with a few scrapes and bruises to show, I guess he realized _some_one was bound to get me at one point. Why not beat them to the punch? But the better question is how he knew where to find me. I was paying my respects to my parents when I was shot."

A heavy stillness filled the conversation, neither of them willing to admit the horrible possibility. "Maybe he followed the car…extremely easy to identify, that car," Dick suggested halfheartedly, "or maybe he was following Catwoman, who followed you."

Bruce glared at the computer screen displaying the Joker's mug shot. "Perhaps."

"Ok, so Harley." A dark memory clouded Dick's eyes for a moment. "We have to get her help, protection, relocate her, something. She will end up a corpse by the end of the month, probably sooner."

"I have tried everything to get her to see the Joker for what he is—a monster not worth the dirt on her shoe—but she just won't listen. You can't help her, Dick. She doesn't want it."

"She is going to _die_, Bruce," he insisted, shifting restlessly from foot to foot.

Bruce nodded solemnly. "Yes, I know. Eventually she will die, more than likely at his hand. But you have to remember real love is blind. She only sees the good in him, and looks over everything else. And sadly, her love is side-sided. You need to just accept that it is her life—she is a grown woman with a need for love so profound, it has warped her perception of what exactly it is. We can't do anything but pick up the pieces."

The young man sank down to the floor and sighed heavily. "You're right," he relented. "It's just…she was so broken. So miserable. Who can treat someone like that? Especially the woman he allegedly loves? I mean, that's like you hurting Catwoman, or Talia. You just couldn't live with hurting them."

Bruce put a hand on Dick's shoulder. "You're right. I would never consciously hurt them, and I know it's hard seeing people who can do that. It makes me angry also. But I have to keep reminding myself that every time I bust up a prostitution ring, or take down rapists and pedophiles and pimps, it's just one less I have to worry about hurting those I love. Think of it that way. It prevents me from castrating them right then and there."

"Great advice, Bruce."

"I thought so."

"Ok, so when am I allowed to take Joker down?"

"It will have to wait for another few days."

"Why?"

Bruce went over to a nearby table, and grabbed up swaths of black, dark gray, and navy material. "New batsuit. Double reinforced chest plates, new Kevlar, and magnetized metal to slow bullets. And I need just a little more time to recuperate."

Dick lifted it up for inspection. "So, I guess I get to retire the cape and cowl?"

"Who said that?" Bruce's eyes flashed viciously.

A wicked grin spread across Dick's face. "Oh, this is going to be a whole lot of god damn fun."


	5. Glimmer of hope

Chapter 5: Glimmer of Hope

"So, you have absolutely no new information on the Joker's escape? Or on his new murder victim?" Reporter Vicky Vale shoved a tape recorder into the annoyed face of Commissioner Gordon.

He impatiently pushed her manicured hand away, along with at least another dozen of varying sizes and colors containing microphones and other recording devices as he ducked under the perimeter of sickly yellow tape. The flashing strobe lights of the media's cameras reflected on his glasses in such rapid succession that they looked to be made of solid silver.

"_I said no comment! _Can you people not hear? Back off you bunch of lousy vultures." He turned away from them to light a cigarette, and noticed a melting orange and red glob of a sun on the horizon. It would be dark soon, which meant these reporters would scuttle back to the safety of their workplaces and newsrooms if they had any amount of self preservation in their bodies.

"Jim!"

At the use of his first name, he looked up, startled. When he peered through the omnipresent Gotham smog he saw a young woman bend under the crime scene tape and run toward him with a note pad and pencil clutched in her hands. Another _damn_ reporter.

"Nope, no, the answer is no. Don't ask me anything." He threw out his arms to fend her off as she reached him.

"I just want a statement about—"

"I don't know anything. I'm waiting for the toxicologist's okay to get inside to the _actual_ crime scene. I haven't even seen it yet."

The gray eyed woman huffed in annoyance, then flipped back long black hair out of her delicately featured face. "You mean I came all the away from Metropolis for nothing? Come on, you gotta give me something." She looked eagerly at the commissioner, and tapped an old fashioned wooden pencil against her cheek.

Gordon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. "Lois Lane. What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

She crossed her arms defensively. "I'm pretty sure it's my job to ask the questions, but if you must know _The Daily Planet_ always gives me the big stories…and sometimes the most dangerous. They want the real gritty truth on our sister city, and they sent me in to get it."

He twisted his mouth to the side, making his blocky moustache poke out in an odd manner. Just as he took a breath to speak, someone opened the door to the roped-off building.

"Commissioner," a uniformed man called, propping the door open to admit him into the abandoned apartment complex. "It's clear. No Joker gas has been detected." The toxicologist came down the steps and ambled up to Gordon, who grabbed him by the shoulders and planted him in front of the information-deprived Lois Lane.

"Tell that to _her_," he said, then slapped a hand on the frightened forensic scientist's back. "Be careful, son, that woman will eat you up and spit you back out."

"But commissioner—," she protested angrily, trying to angle herself around the bewildered man.

"You will be my first media contact, Lane. Let me do my job," he yelled over his shoulder as he briskly snuffed out his cigarette and entered the threshold of the building. "Bring me to the place of interest, boys," he ordered as he followed the steady flow of officers leading up a meekly gray stairwell in a bad need of a paint job…and a couple of its steps.

The bustling stream of investigators and law enforcement ended at a nondescript tan door with the lock torn off.

"The body's in here," Detective Montoya said, pointing with gloved fingers toward a small bathroom connected to the master bedroom. Gordon went to push past her, but he noticed how those fingers began to hover around the neck of her uniform, seeking out a necklace she always wore.

"What are you not telling me, Detective?"

Her large almond eyes snapped up in surprise. "Huh?"

He gestured to her neck. "You always do that when something is bothering you. My wife has quirks like that, too."

"Oh," she breathed, locking her hands behind her back as a deep blush darkened her golden Latino skin. "Nervous habit. I…I think this may be Harley," she whispered, her black eyes glassy. "No one is concerned over it, but I think it's her. I mean, I know it doesn't matter now who the murder victim is, and I know she was a criminal and all, but…she was one of the pleasant ones. It's just sad that the world lost such a happy, albeit demented—but happy person."

Gordon shoved his hands in his pockets, and peeked a look into the bedraggled bathroom until he caught sight of a curled hand coated in drying blood. He jerkily stepped back, and beckoned Detective Montoya to follow. As soon as they entered the gruesome living room, he turned to her.

"Is this the primary crime scene?"

"Yes."

"Has anyone touched anything here?"

"No."

"Gather and tag evidence for me. The important-looking stuff…I'm going to send it to a specialist."

She nodded quickly.

He dropped his voice so that only she could hear. "But, send it personally to my office. He will pick it up there tonight."

The detective looked sharply at the commissioner, then her face relaxed as she realized who the 'specialist' was. "Okay. I understand." Her lips thinned to a flat line, but she nonetheless began to scour the room.

"I knew you would," he said as he strode back to the bathroom. When he reached the cramped room, he ordered all the officers out who were collecting evidence and taking pictures, and kneeled next to Harley's scantily clad body.

_She was so young_, he thought, shifting white-blonde hair out of her disfigured face with a plastic pen.

"What did he do to you?" he asked to no one in particular, baffled at all the different lesions and bruises and marks telling of a brutal, sadistic slaughter of a death. Harley's body was only half dressed, her shorts tossed in a corner. On several parts of the corpse, the wounds worsened to mutilation, some of which the commissioner couldn't help but to notice were in very personal areas.

He frowned as he studied her, thinking that she just looked _off_. The color of her skin wasn't that chalky watermark imprint left behind, but a delicate ivory paled to radical extremes from blood loss, like when a person faints or has blacks out. He had seen a lot of dead bodies while on the job, and she just didn't look like them. The dark splashes of blood caked in her hair and on her body jumped out in his mind suddenly in an unwelcome, magnified manner, and the sheer amount alone made him dismiss the chance that she was alive. Something about her particular pose did evoke a sense of grim finality—the body language of the deceased. Hard to argue that.

With a heavy breath he braced his hands on his knees, and stood up to address the milling cops in the next room. "I want a rape kit done on her, and I want her body sent to the least slimy coroner we have in Gotham. I need those shorts bagged over in that corner over there, and I want every goddamned bullet, sperm, and green hair in this apartment found and recorded as evidence. That little shit isn't going to get out of a loophole this time. _We_ are going to bring him in, not Batman. He isn't going to be sent to Arkham again...his next stop is being hooked up to a needle or the electric chair."

Gordon turned back once more to survey the bathroom, his eyes brightened and his mind invigorated with the sense of purpose of his new resolution. His gaze locked onto the solitary blood spatter on the far wall. He strode over to it, and followed the trail to the broken window. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, then glared closely at the remaining glass teeth jutting from the window edges. All were covered in blood.

"Montoya!" Gordon shouted, returning again to inspect Harley.

"Yes?" the winded woman breathed from the doorway.

He pointed at the blood. "Get a sample. Then get another for our office. That is the first thing I want sent off to the labs. It doesn't make sense. Harley was obviously attacked in the living room, then somehow ended up in here. All the blood should be in there. She has no gunshot wound, and yet this entire room is covered in damn bullet holes. Someone was hit—I want to know who it was if the blood isn't Harley or Joker's, and why they were here. As far as I am concerned, they are just as responsible for this. They will be treated as an accomplice and will be arrested."

"Yes, sir."

As Gordon sidled around the body and the detective, the corpse abruptly uttered an agonized moan, which made him stumble backwards into the bedroom wall.

In a fluster, he immediately went to Harley while Montoya dispatched for an ambulance. "Who the hell was first on the scene? What _idiot_ pronounced her dead? Someone call an ambulance! Oh, God," he softly said as the girl opened her blackened eyes to red cracks. A glimmer of blue shone through each slit as she struggled to draw a breath.

"Stay with me, Harleen," he said, squeezing her hand as he heard sirens surging louder and louder. He quickly looked out the broken window into the night for some sign of the siren's flashing blue and red lights on the street below. "Help is coming. Help's on the way. Montoya, did you call the ambulance? Why aren't they here? They need to hurry the hell up!"

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"_What did I tell you?"_ Dick said angrily, his voice crackling as it filled the Batcave.

"Calm down, Nightwing," Bruce replied as he ground his teeth together. "We need to focus. Harley's getting help. We are after Joker. He should be on the move."

"No, _I _am after Joker. And the only thing I am getting to do tonight is put a tracer on him—not going to take a neurosurgeon to do. So, I think I am allowed to express my frustration to a marginal degree." Bruce heard the swell of an engine as Dick spurred his sleek black motorcycle through Gotham's underbelly network of sewers and catacombs. Noxious green sludge pin-wheeled onto stone walls as he hydroplaned through the dark watery tunnels.

"We will get him. And you know the tracker is necessary. As soon as he is stationary, we will strike immediately. We have a plan."

Dick sighed. "And I hope it works, Batman."


	6. Hard Evidence

Chapter 6: Hard Evidence

AUTHOR NOTE: I have to give special thanks to SmilinForYa and Tigerliliee for steady reviews. Thank you so much for your love and patience.

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The bat symbol rippled softly as wispy night clouds drifted through the pale yellow beam in wafts of silver and fuzzy gray. Commissioner Gordon stood stiffly on the Gotham City Police Department rooftop, his cup of coffee ice cold.

His neck clenched from looking up for so long. Frustrated, he looked at his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time, waited for twenty more minutes until it was two in the morning, then finally switched the overheated light off and came inside. The police station was near empty—he was practically alone, except for a couple overtimers and those who didn't have a better place to go home to.

Gordon's office was beyond dark; shadows stretched and warped themselves across his desk and floor as he locked himself inside. He shrugged off his old tan trench coat to place on the back of his chair, and turned on his desk lamp. Three boxes of evidence were neatly lined up on his desk, as requested. With an exhausted sigh, he deflated into his comfortable but worn seat and pulled up his email.

There were nine unread messages. Most of them were junk mail, some advertisements, and one was from Gotham Forensics. He opened that one to find that the results from the blood spatter found in the bathroom were complete—and that there was a match. Scrolling down, he froze in shock when a picture showed on the screen.

The match was Gotham's own Richard Grayson. Gordon's jaw dropped involuntarily as he stared at Richard's carefree blue eyes and grinning face on the computer. Grayson was a victim of crime, not a committer of it. "No, he couldn't possibly…"

He remembered those same blue eyes and open face from twelve years ago as he wrapped the young boy up in his leather police jacket the night his parents were killed in the big top of the traveling circus. They were part of the trapeze act—the Flying Graysons, he recalled, and they were killed from an 'equipment malfunction' for reasons loosely connected to a mob in Gotham, drowned in controversy. By a stroke of luck granted by God himself, a kindred soul was seated in the audience that night. Bruce Wayne soon took the orphan in, and ever since Gordon had never seen him happier. He wasn't capable of being an accomplice with the Joker. Was he?

Regardless if he was or not, he was sure the warrant for his arrest would be cleared and signed into action before the sun broke the horizon. And he would have to carry it out himself.

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It was nearly morning when Catwoman slunk her way back to Crime Alley, her mind far away as she weaved fluidly across steeply slanted roofs. From the first time she had ever encountered the Batman she had secretively longed to know who he truly was, but never exactly followed through—she'd had plenty of opportunity, sure, but Selina never did bring herself to end the mystery. It was too much fun. And now that it was again a real possibility she might unravel his identity she still didn't think she would do it. She just couldn't purposefully betray his trust. It was a big deal, a profoundly personal secret to share a civilian identity in the politics of superheroes and villains. And yet, here she was independently investigating for herself…you just didn't _do _that, especially to someone you loved.

Selina spent a good hour and a half just looking at her Catsuit in her apartment, wondering if _he_ knew about _her_. Surely he knew. He was the world's greatest detective! She _wanted_ him to know she was Catwoman. She needed him to see that she understood him, that she loved him in a way no one else could. What's more, she was aware the Batman only an urban legend and a bunch of fabric: the man behind it all was who Selina fell for. Their rooftop rendezvous filled with arguments, fighting, and lustful flirtations just weren't enough anymore—she wanted all of him, everything he had to offer. She was ready and _deserved_ to have a real relationship with him. If Batman was in fact Bruce Wayne, then she knew that was who held her heart. And she was willing to do anything to hold his.

Selina smiled to herself as she worked her way to the approximate center of the alley, right under where Batman had fallen. Large dark stains on the steaming asphalt were the only remnants of what had transpired nearly a week ago. Without meaning to, Catwoman was again lost in the flashback of Batman falling off the building, and of him lying there in the garbage and puddles so crumpled and still.

She had thought he was dead then, but when she lifted away Batman's cape she found that the Kevlar had stopped all the bullets from going through. It was the drop that had done him in. Immediately her attention was drawn to his mouth and torso. His chest did not move under her light hand, but in the chill of the night rain, Selina could just faintly see little wispy clouds escape from his pale lips. As best she could, she had doctored his injuries and stopped any bleeding with strips of his cape. A hospital visit was obviously not an option, so she had dispatched an emergency distress signal to the Batcave where someone was sure get help. Worried he might be found Selina also dragged him to the next street over, and covered him loosely with damp paper and trash bags. She withdrew to the top of the Opera House then to make sure he was found by the right people, and hid from sight in the shadows behind a cracked mossy gargoyle.

Less than five minutes later, low vibrations shook the building as the sleek Batplane lowered itself into Crime Alley. Not one minute later a male figure heavily shielded from the battering rain jogged around the corner, a small device's glowing screen clenched tightly in his hands. He quickly located Batman and took stock of his wounds with long boney fingers. Catwoman leaned out from her hiding spot despite the high risk of detection, curious of the man's identity. The man had hesitated only for a moment over the already bound wounds to scan both mouths of the alley. Just as his head had snapped up toward her, she shrank away and ran.

_He didn't see you,_ Catwoman reassured herself she meticulously scoured through the trash and debris littering the alley. _It was raining and dark and you had night-vision goggles. You are being paranoid. _

Dawn had already leeched away the oversaturated colors of night and Gotham was rapidly being returned to its average everyday citizens. Selina combed though the entire alleyway end to end for the fourth time when she reluctantly submitted to the fact that the flowers simply weren't there. Aggravated and sweaty, she ripped off her cowl and mask, her chest heaving. Normally she would have worried about someone seeing her, but the daytime populace never ventured down areas like this—they corralled themselves to the crowded sidewalks in favor of well-traveled, longer routes over shortcuts splattered in blood and layered in graffitied gang markers.

Smart choice.

NOT COMPLETED! Stay tuned.


End file.
